Lincoln's Assassin

by J F Pennington

  If a heart must needs have been broken, am I foolish to say I am glad it was mine? She was so fragile, so giving, so loving, so sure. Was I even cruel to have loved her from the start? Where was the wisdom of my years and experience, or was I merely selfish to ignore the obvious signs of what could never truly be? Still, I think I loved her best I could, if never wholly, never holy, never enough.

  ***

  Time. Place.

  A theater backstage. A narrow corridor ending in what appear to be stacks of set fragments. High, black curtains, moving in a waving motion as with a constant wind, form one wall. The other is a row of doors interrupted by a single, low-turned sconce. Inside a dressing room, THE ACTOR begins to peel off a costume and sees a fresh bouquet of a dozen white roses. He looks for a card. There is none. A knock on the door. He opens it to an extended thirteenth, long-stemmed and very red rose. It is held out to him by the YOUNG WOMAN. She wears a lace-trimmed, wine-colored taffeta gown and has a seductive if playful smile upon her face.

  THE ACTOR: They are very beautiful. (the Young Woman smiles wider) I cannot accept them.

  YOUNG WOMAN (still smiling): Why not? What do you mean?

  THE ACTOR: Exactly as I said. I cannot—

  YOUNG WOMAN (interrupting with a serious frown): Is it not acceptable for a woman to give flowers to an appreciated player after his performance?

  THE ACTOR: Of course. I just thought—

  YOUNG WOMAN (interrupting again): That they meant something more?

  THE ACTOR: Frankly, yes. (pointedly) And it is somewhat unusual for a lady of any age to visit an actor in his dressing room.

  YOUNG WOMAN: Well, they do not. Thank you, again. (hands the red rose to him insistently) You were quite—charming.

  The Actor takes the flower dumbly. The Young Woman smiles again, shrugs and leaves.

  ***

  I ask myself why we ever met. Did we belong together? Were we somehow destined? Or was it simply so that I could meet my fate by insisting another man meet his?

  If it were that we belonged—she and I—then why? What did we inspire in each other—love? What good did I ever bring out in her, or to her? I will assume that the brink over which she took me was for the best. This must be the assumption. But then how so for her? What was the reason, the purpose of her meeting me? I would like to think it was for love. To know the pleasures, questions, reminders, even sorrows of its face. But it is not enough.

  ***

  Time. Place.

  THE ACTOR’s dressing room. The door is open. He dons make-up in front of a small but adequate mirror. The YOUNG WOMAN paces between him and the door. She wears an emerald-green gown not unlike that of the previous scene for its style and richness. The Actor seems almost at ease with her presence. There is a small bunch of pink tea roses on the dressing table to one side of him and a chess table set to play in one corner.

  YOUNG WOMAN (picking up one of the white chess pieces): Father will not let me play at chess. He says its strategies and intrigues are neither feminine nor modest. But I do, at every chanced opportunity, and I wonder to which member of the species it could be better suited (putting the piece back down in a different position, turning). My father is rather taken with your brother, Mr. Wilkes.

  THE ACTOR: Yes, and always has been. He is not alone.

  YOUNG WOMAN (smiling): He would be if I were the only other person in this city. (with a sense of boredom) And sometimes I feel like it is just the two of us.

  THE ACTOR: My brother is one of those men who moves with equal ease among both men and women. An affair such as you hosted the other night is completely natural to him. I envy his ability to be so familiar with strangers.

  YOUNG WOMAN: And I find it tiring. The reason I prefer a man like you. One need not question your sincerity.

  THE ACTOR: Don’t misconstrue. There’s enough Booth in me to lend more than a fair share of ruthlessness.

  YOUNG WOMAN: Is that a warning?

  THE ACTOR (humorously): Perhaps a challenge?

  The Young Woman beams.

  YOUNG WOMAN: You have plans this Wednesday?

  THE ACTOR: No. I have taken the week off. Why?

  YOUNG WOMAN: Then there is no reason why you cannot accompany me to church.

  THE ACTOR: I suppose not. Wednesday?

  YOUNG WOMAN (starting to leave): Wonderful! (turns) It is the feast of the Epiphany. You know what Epiphany is, I presume?

  THE ACTOR (aside): The Festival of Fools?

  YOUNG WOMAN (startled): What?

  THE ACTOR: Nothing. Of course I do. My mother was a Catholic. Although she forsook her faith to marry my father. He had been married before—and was still married to a first wife when they met, and continued to be until the last of us was born. In fact my parents did not marry until my thirteenth birthday. The very day! (responding to the Young Woman’s apparent concern) I am not going to try to justify it, but I find it somewhat romantic. (the Young Woman forces a confused smile) Or, do you not believe in love—and passion?

  YOUNG WOMAN (visibly affected): Of course. Very much so. But then, you were not baptized?

  THE ACTOR: As a matter of fact, I was. Of all my mother’s children only Edwin and I were—a fact our sister Asia uses to tease and taunt. Something about the midwife having once been a Sister of Mercy. Does that redeem me?

  YOUNG WOMAN: Only in God’s eyes, Mr. Wilkes. For me—you will still have to take me to mass Wednesday morning. (turns again to leave) I believe the expression is break a leg!

  They smile at each other, she winks, exits.

  ***

  Wednesday, January 6, 1864. The east end of Capital City.

  Feast of the Epiphany. A light, half-frozen rain falls in the early morning. Some CARRIAGES and umbrella’d PEDESTRIANS approach a street corner where a small, steepled church stands firmly to the weather. Whitewashed wood outside, three sections of simple wooden pews inside. A few medium-sized stained-glass windows filter in beams of gray-clouded light. While a PRIEST performs the Eucharistic offering, the YOUNG WOMAN and THE ACTOR—she in a high, veiled fur cap and collared coat, he in a dark gray-striped suit and overcoat—kneel beside each other. She unwraps her hands long enough to entwine one of her arms through his before again folding them in prayer.

  ***

  Mid-morning, same day. The rain has stopped. Still dressed in their church finery the YOUNG WOMAN, veil pulled up over her stylish hat, leads THE ACTOR through the Congressional Graveyard to the crypt of her mother. As the rain begins again she offers to share her umbrella. He declines politely with a gesture to say his hat will suffice. Not to be outdone, she folds the umbrella and continues alongside him in the increasingly steady downpour. They laugh at each other.

  THE ACTOR (openly): That is the third time in less than two weeks that I have been to church.

  YOUNG WOMAN: And?

  THE ACTOR: Nothing really. It is just that I can hardly believe it. (laughing nervously) I have not prayed this regularly in my entire life.

  YOUNG WOMAN (solemnly): This is a very holy time of year.

  THE ACTOR (boldly): I have no money, Miss Nash.

  YOUNG WOMAN: What do I care?

  THE ACTOR: I am sure I do not know. It is widely reported that I am very successful. I play all season, it is true. But I have no real means.

  YOUNG WOMAN: Then what do you do with your earnings?

  The Actor hesitates, looks away.

  YOUNG WOMAN: No matter. I have enough money for all five of us.

  THE ACTOR: Us? (pauses, smiles) Five?

  YOUNG WOMAN: I would never leave my father. He must be a part of my household, whatever happens. And I will have twins, Mr. Wilkes. Nothing else will do.

  ***

  It was at that moment that I can truly say I knew first of our fast but certain love. And when I say I miss that day I wonder if you will understand. I wish it had lasted forever, was lasting still, still with its cold wet winds and cloudy skies. I remember them as warm breaths, kissing bree
zes, gentler whisperings.

  Was I so naïve to think it could be ever so—that I might retrieve and, with her help and guiding influence, perpetuate the time whose purity I had long abandoned for my ancient fear and doubt? I bless the day we met, curse the hour I fell in love.

  We walked under spreading willows past the puddling, stone-marked and mounded rows. In two corners, I was introduced to her mother and, just to the side of a central crypt, three generations of her father’s forebears.

  ***

  Seeking shelter from a sudden downpour in the short eaves of a large monument inscribed “NASH” and with separate inscriptions below.

  YOUNG WOMAN: My uncle told me you very nearly saved his life.

  THE ACTOR: Your uncle?

  YOUNG WOMAN: August last. Major Badeau?

  THE ACTOR: I did not know the major was your uncle.

  YOUNG WOMAN: My mother’s half-brother.

  THE ACTOR: It is because of his invitation we met. Why was he not at your house New Year’s day?

  YOUNG WOMAN: His place is no longer with the family. He is forever with his drunken commander, the general—General Grant, not Gillmore. I believe he was still with Gillmore last summer. Or was it Sherman? No, that has been some time, I believe. But how can I be sure? The war moves on, and whole alignments and loyalties with it. So my father says. Just so, Uncle Adam’s present appointment has not yet been confirmed, but Grant has promised him the rank of lieutenant colonel on his staff. Of course, it may simply be the cigars and whisky talking.

  THE ACTOR: May a man not be taken upon his word?

  YOUNG WOMAN: What would I know of such things? Father says you are sympathetic with the South. That cannot be true. A rebel would not have tended to my uncle.

  THE ACTOR: Patriotism is not rebellion.

  YOUNG WOMAN: A true patriot would love the North.

  THE ACTOR: I believe a true patriot would see no North or South. Perhaps one day I could make you understand.

  The Young Woman reflects for a moment, enters the crypt through an unlocked iron gate. Inside she kneels aside one of four marble tombs. Following her in, The Actor kneels beside her.

  YOUNG WOMAN (quietly after a time): I wish you could have known my mother. She was very beautiful. Now you are as close to her as ever I can be again. (thoughtfully, rising toward the gate) When is your birthday?

  THE ACTOR (after her): May. The tenth. Why?

  YOUNG WOMAN (mysteriously): It’s too bad it could not be four days later. Mine is next month. Valentine’s Day.

  THE ACTOR: That does not surprise me.

  YOUNG WOMAN: It can be a horrible day for a birthday. Everyone gets presents, not just you. And I only ever get birthday greetings. Always birthday greetings. Just once I would like to receive a Valentine. To be asked to be someone’s Valentine.

  THE ACTOR: I find it difficult to believe that you never received one. Is that true?

  YOUNG WOMAN: Of course, I am not the only one with a holiday for a birthday. My entire family, for example. My father’s—but you know—is New Year’s. My mother’s was—this day. (reading the inscription on the tomb) Truth, honor, integrity.

  The Actor looks at her searchingly.

  YOUNG WOMAN (cont’d): Do you know the works of Machiavelli?

  THE ACTOR: I know his name.

  YOUNG WOMAN (with a schoolgirl’s snobbery and perfect, if exaggerated accent): Not Il Principe, no, no; too much politics! Il Mandragola. This is where my mother found my name. Camilla, the beautiful heroine sought by all the handsome young men. (posing distractedly) Have you yet wondered what it would be like to kiss, Mr. Wilkes? If we were to kiss?

  THE ACTOR: I have had little else on my mind since we met.

  YOUNG WOMAN: And?

  THE ACTOR: And I think we would be more than [beat] satisfied.

  YOUNG WOMAN: That is a funny word for a kiss.

  THE ACTOR: Kisses can be funny things.

  YOUNG WOMAN: I hope your kisses wouldn’t make me laugh.

  THE ACTOR: Oh?

  She turns to walk in the other direction.

  YOUNG WOMAN: One day our children may be buried here.

  THE ACTOR: And this is a funny speech for one who only talks of kissing.

  ***

  She calmly slipped one shoulder, then another, of her now-soaked gown aside. Her fingers found their way along my lips and be-drizzled moustache while she rested her elbows between my arms and chest. Her eyes seemed locked with my own.

  I wanted to kiss her but I could not. I was not sure at the time why. I am not sure still. How could I? She was so pure. So perfect. So unlike any of the women I had ever kissed before. She looked at me with the same confused understanding I felt inside.

  And when I left her that day it was in my usual place of solace where I found my contentment. I knew well my nature then. Well enough not to allow a mote of it to intrude upon hers. That night I slept in the house of bolstered sateens and colored lampshades next to an empty bottle and another nameless woman.

  Intermezzo

  The Deed

  The stage lights shone something amber upon an attentive house. A chandelier of fragile crystal hung suspended over the audience, supported by a cord whose bindings I controlled. This moment the counterweights held perfectly; the next, only I could say. The balance was mine. Not the idea, but its adequacy or lack. At any moment, I might decide, until the final line: “You sockdologizing old mantrap!”

  My proclamation, the report of my pistol, my leap—my final exit.

  Act III

  The Mark of the Man

  A REMARKABLE LECTURE!

  JOHN H. SURRATT TELLS HIS STORY

  A Vivid Narrative – History of the Abduction Plot – Surratt’s Experiences with J. Wilkes Booth – Booth Hints at the Murder of Lincoln – The Other Conspirators Threaten to Withdraw – The Assassination – Surratt’s Escape to Canada – He Implicates Weichmann in the Abduction Plot – He Denounces Weichmann, Judge Fisher, and Edwin M. Stanton – “John Harrison” – Surratt and the Confederate Government – Why Surratt Did Not Come to the Aid of His Mother

  Evening Star, Washington, D.C., December 7, 1870

  Scene I

  Once I was pure as the snow—but I fell:

  Fell, like the snowflakes, from heaven—to hell;

  Fell, to be tramped as the filth of the street;

  Fell, to be scoffed, to be spit on, and beat.

  After two days, I decided what could be done in New York and Baltimore was done, at least for the time. The memory of that first visit with Edwin continued to occupy the better part of my thoughts, but I was not wholly convinced as to why. Something in our conversation that night continued to plague my recollection of the evening, but it would not make itself altogether clear.

  Before leaving I stopped into a small walk-up photography studio near Tompkins Square and, feeling the excess of the monies given me by my brother, had my picture taken under the name of Jack Harvey. I specified the type of mounting desired and promised to return for delivery on Monday. But I doubted the photographer would be at all surprised when I did not return, despite my having already settled the account. He had eyed me suspiciously the entire time, as there could be no apparent reason for one such as I desiring a photograph. Only then could I be confirmed in my complete transformation. Not merely by matter of my disguise, but the masking years as well.

  All the way to the rail station from my hotel the city seemed not more familiar for the past two days but stranger still, as the sounds of a Saturday hazcarah being performed in the Synagogue Shearith Israel rang in my ears.

  This time my route was more direct and overwrought by the enormity of my task, I found the very climate of my surroundings now changed, it seemed, accordingly. Spending most of my time aboard the train in that kind of strange, half-sleep that attends not fatigue but utter desolation, I have only two incidents to report from the entire journey. Both took place within twenty-four hours of my departure.

  The
first of these incidents began in Philadelphia’s Broad Street Station where the train arrived just after six-thirty in the evening. As I shook off my depression and rose to take some air, I noticed three white feathers on the floor of my passenger compartment. One of them was stained, the other two the purest white. It was an omen, I knew at once. But an omen of what?

  Stepping onto the landing I at once remarked a kind of skirmish across the yard among the campfires of the dissolute. "Violence and bedlam!" someone shouted, and I quickly turned my collar up with a shiver and began in the opposite direction, sensing the indictment had been directed at me.

  This may not seem like much, and of itself was not, as before long I found myself completely distracted by the stately environs of Independence Square. In the distance the Camden Ferry sounded along the Schuylkill and Delaware Rivers and I was pleasantly remembering my engagements at Wheatley’s—where I made my professional debut for a single night the summer of my seventeenth year, playing Richmond in Richard III and returning the next year as a contract player for the entire season at Mrs. Drew’s Arch Street Theater and the Walnut Street.

  ***

  Time. Philadelphia.

  The YOUNG WOMAN and THE ACTOR exit the stage door of the Walnut Street Theater.

  “Take me for a stroll,” she said shyly, “We can turn here on Sansom, may we not, and walk to Chestnut Street past Independence Hall? I would so like to see the birthplace of our nation. The government we were meant to have,” she added as she took his arm. “You know, Mr. Wilkes, you are very beautiful. All the women say so. Not just the young ones like myself. All the women—even the ones whose positions and marriages beg excuses for having said it.”

  They set out, but the Actor does not for an instant accept her ruse and uncharacteristic interest in matters either political or historic, lest she should have begged him take her to rather than past her alleged destination. But what was past it? Sansom Street, famous in all Philadelphia for its many diamond merchants, and known to all as Jewelers Row. Her flattery, on the other hand, was a different matter.